


Everyone Needs

by kronette



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a sequel to "<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/613730">Hour of the Wolf</a>."  It follows where that story left off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone Needs

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta readers Nati, Mysti and anyone else who might have read it over the course of last year. I thought I saved everyone's comments, but theirs was all I could find. Special thanks to Juanita for her invaluable help with Methos' story. Without her, I would have been lost in ancient Carthage. Also special thanks  
> to Kelly for her 'gut instincts'.
> 
> Originally posted in 1998 under my real name - seriously, what was I thinking!?

Joe Dawson sipped at his whiskey and watched as Methos downed his fifth scotch. He had been studying the Immortal ever since they had emerged from his office, and he noted the changes in the ancient man. It looked like Methos had lost a little weight, but that wasn't what worried Joe. It was Methos' attitude. It was in the way Methos' face pinched when he was quiet too long; the set of his shoulders, the sorrow in his eyes - something was still haunting him. 

"Ada - what should I call you?" he asked, remembering that Methos had left the Watchers. "You're not still going by Pierson, are you?"

Methos shook his head minutely. Joe winced as the Immortal knocked back his sixth scotch like it was tap water. "As far as the Watchers are concerned, yes, I am still Adam Pierson. But I need a new identity - or a very old one," the Immortal mused, lifting an eyebrow. Methos' finger tapped at the empty glass, and Joe retrieved the bottle and set it in front of the old man.

"Promise me you won't drive, _Adam_ ," he joked lightly as Methos filled the glass to the brim. 

The bottle went to the bar top with a dull thud. "I hadn't thought about it," Methos admitted as he picked up the glass and raised it in a toast. "I guess I'll walk." 

Joe's hand on Methos' stopped the glass from making it to his lips. "No, you won't. You're in no shape to fight if you run into another." He didn't need to say another _what_. "I'm not losing you now after all you've gone through."

Methos snorted as he pulled his hand free. "Losing me? Joe, I'm beginning to think I can't die. Do you know how dangerous that is for one of us?" He set the glass down and leaned heavily on the bar. "I took on Silas. You know how big he was?" 

Joe shook his head. There hadn't been any pictures of Silas in the Watcher database; only Caspian and Koren had been found and recorded by them. 

Methos' face slid into an unemotional mask as he described Silas. "He was big. Great big." Methos' arms went straight out at his sides and nearly knocked over the bottle of scotch. Only Joe's quick reflexes saved it from crashing to the floor. Methos didn't even notice. "Stronger than a Clydesdale, probably stronger than an elephant." He dropped his arms back to the bar top, and leaned his weight on his crossed arms. "Felt like it when I blocked his ax, anyway. It jarred me; rattled my teeth. Oh, he was definitely the strongest physically of us," he praised Silas, his voice taking on a reverent tone as he discussed his now-dead brother. 

Joe remained quiet, afraid of breaking the spell Methos was putting himself under. He didn't think Methos realized what he was saying; the Immortal was emotionally and physically exhausted. 

"Caspian was the hunter. He liked to stalk his prey, catch them, then toy with them. Enjoyed it, he did. Caspian was definitely a master torturer," Methos whispered as his eyes glazed over. Then the Immortal sighed as he said the name of the leader of the Horsemen. "Kronos. My dearest brother, why couldn't you see? The world had changed, but you chose not to change with it. Even after all these years, you were still hoping to regain your former glory. Blinded by something..." 

Joe felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up; unsure how to feel. On one hand, he was learning something very important about Methos and his all-too-unknown past. On the other, watching Methos' face as he talked about his brothers was painful. The emotions were still too raw for Methos to distance himself from them, and each memory brought another flinch of pain across his face.

"Methos, you don't have to tell me this," he interrupted the Immortal softly. "They were a part of your past, and you have a right to grieve privately."

Methos shook his head. "No, Joe. I want to share this with you. Because I cannot share it with MacLeod," he added under his breath. He picked up his drink and tossed it back, then reached for the bottle for another refill. His voice was rough as he continued, "Yeah, we were a raiding band of men, who wasn't back then? Times were tough, food was scarce, water even scarcer. None of us wanted to attempt the new farming that so many others were trying; we were too impatient for that. And, we did think of ourselves as gods." Methos paused to take a gulp. 

"And as you might have guessed, no one stops a god. We believed it, and we lived it. Those who defied us were killed. Those that chose to serve us lived in relative luxury for the time. Shelter and protection were provided, food and water given daily. A change of clothes. Rarities in the world; you understand, Joe?" Methos asked, fixing him with a bleary-eyed stare. 

He nodded hesitantly. "My ancient history is a bit rusty, but I think I do."

"Knew you would," Methos nodded his approval. He polished off his drink and refilled his glass again. "Anyway, we treated those who served us well, but there were times when they had to be punished, usually for insubordination or attempting to run away. The worse offense was striking one of us." Methos turned deathly pale, and a fine tremor shook his hands. "No one was allowed to touch their gods unless we ordered them to. To actually hit one...it meant a slow and painful death, usually by Caspian. It kept the others in line..." 

"Adam," Joe called sharply, drawing the other man's attention. "You don't have to relive this for my benefit." He ignored how his own hands were shaking. 

"I have to, Joe," Methos replied softly as tears sparkled in his eyes. "Don't you understand? I can't tell him, but you might be able to after I'm gone."

Joe's eyes narrowed. "I don't like how you said that. What are you planning?"

A wry smile lifted Methos' mouth. "Damn, you are good, Joseph." He picked up the bottle and refilled his glass. "All right then, I had planned to get very, very drunk and just wander the streets of Seacouver, hoping to run into one of the other Immortals in town. Maybe, just maybe, I could convince one of them that I was Methos, and they'd want my..."

"No!" Joe's fist slammed onto the bar top. "I will not let you commit suicide! Not while I'm here to stop you."

The front door swung open and Mike entered, eyebrows raised.

"Hey Mike," Joe covered smoothly as he glanced to the clock. "Be ready to open in a few?"

Mike nodded, eyeing Methos warily before heading to the kitchen. Joe watched them both, worried that Mike may have overheard part of their conversation. Mike didn't know 'Adam Pierson' was an Immortal, and Joe was determined to keep it that way. 

"So, now what?" Methos interrupted his train of thought. "You kick me out and hope never to see me again?" 

"Hell, no," Joe growled as he grabbed his cane and maneuvered around to stand next to Methos. "You're going upstairs to sleep this off. When was the last time you slept, anyway?"

The sudden slump of Methos' shoulders told him before the Immortal replied quietly, "I haven't slept much lately."

"Then come on." Joe gripped Methos' upper arm and hauled him to his feet. "You're going upstairs, and you're going to sleep. And I will guarantee your safety up there," he added, sensing that was part of the reason Methos hadn't slept; fear. Adrenaline was hard to work through the system, and Methos had probably been living on it for days.

"Thank you, Joe," Methos murmured as he allowed himself to be escorted upstairs. He wobbled unsteadily as Joe opened the door and led him into the small bedroom. Stripping off his coat and shoes, Methos lay down on the bed obediently, instantly falling into an exhausted sleep. 

"You're welcome, my friend," Joe replied, once he was sure Methos was actually asleep. Then he returned downstairs to open the bar.

~~~~

Later in the day, Joe looked up at the very familiar, very faint Scottish burr. 

"Hello, Joseph."

It had been quite a long time since MacLeod had called him Joseph. He took in Mac's haggard appearance, his shadowed jaw and his bloodshot eyes: MacLeod looked like hell. Maybe the conversation they had the night before had done some good, after all. Joe knew it had done _him_ a world of good. He couldn't quite say the same for MacLeod ... yet. But since it looked like the Highlander hadn't had any sleep either, he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

"Mac," Joe casually tossed back to the Immortal, nodding to a newly arrived couple as he pulled a draft. "Get you anything?"

MacLeod ignored the lunch crowd around him as he sat at the bar. "Have you seen him?" he asked quietly.

Joe was about to answer when his cook came up to him with a question. Joe nodded, then gave him some instructions. Finally, he turned back to MacLeod, feigning disinterest. "Seen who?" he asked as he started to wash glasses.

MacLeod leaned over the bar, keeping his voice low. "Methos. He left a message at the hotel in Bordeaux. All it said was 'Joe's'. Has he been here?" he asked again.

Joe debated what to tell MacLeod. While he didn't owe Methos anything personally, he had seen the man and had talked to him. Methos was vulnerable at the moment, and he wasn't sure that the oldest Immortal was ready to face the Scot. Besides, MacLeod seemed to be falling into old habits, assuming he would help him. Again. 

Bad assumption. "I ain't seen him," Joe replied as he made his decision. 

MacLeod studied the Watcher intently. "You sure?"

Joe's eyes narrowed as he stared down the Scotsman. "I'm not so old that my memory is failing," he remarked shortly. "If he shows up, I'll tell him you're in town." 

"All right, Joe," MacLeod conceded, backing down. He ordered a malt scotch and took his time finishing it. 

Joe kept up a steady stream of chatter with his regulars, sparing the occasional glance to MacLeod. The customers drifted in and out, eventually fading as the crowd shifted from after lunch to late afternoon. Joe's curiosity finally got the better of him, and he found himself asking, "Where's Cassandra?"

"Left," MacLeod answered curtly. 

Joe set the glass he was washing down carefully. "Just like that? Did she stay to see if you were okay?"

MacLeod turned his glass around very slowly, contemplating it. "She was there after the Quickenings. Kronos had kidnapped her, and sent Methos to tell Silas to kill her. Somehow, Methos ended up fighting Silas. I didn't see Cassandra until she came after Methos' head."

"Excuse me?" Joe leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "Cassandra went for Methos' head?"

MacLeod nodded, frowning. "After the Quickenings. Methos was...affected, and she tried to take his head. I stopped her." 

"But she's still alive, right?' Joe asked, waiting for Duncan to nod. "How did you stop her?"

MacLeod sighed, then took a sip of his scotch. "I asked her to let him live."

"Original," Joe mused, backing up a step. "Never would have thought to just ask her." He ignored MacLeod's scathing look. "Was she still wanting revenge on what happened to her village three thousand years ago?" he asked with a trace of sarcasm. 

MacLeod's drink slammed onto the bar top. "No, she wanted revenge on what Methos did to _her_ three thousand years ago," he hissed.

He stared after the Immortal as if he'd grown another head. " _What_?" he rasped. "You didn't think to tell me any of this before?"

MacLeod feigned interest in the band setting up. "Didn't think it was necessary. It wasn't your business," he murmured. 

Joe felt himself flush hotly with anger, and he snapped, "But it was yours, is that it?"

MacLeod turned to stare hard at him. "Yes, it was my business. Cassandra is my friend."

"Methos is your friend," he countered, angrily. "Have you heard his side of it yet? Have you given him a chance to explain anything?"

Duncan's eyes drifted down to the glass in his hand. "Sort of."

"Sort of? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Damnit Joe, mind..."

"If you tell me to butt out, you can leave and never come back," the Watcher threatened, his voice low and deadly. 

Watcher and Immortal stared at each other for a full minute, then finally Duncan looked away. "I met Methos at Elysium Church. He told me he let Cassandra escape the Horsemen."

He mulled that over for a second. "Let her? How? He just shoved her out of his tent one day and told her to run?"

"No," MacLeod hissed, his eyes sliding around the bar, making sure no one was listening to their conversation. "Methos returned from riding one day, and Cassandra was in his tent. Kronos came and took her. She escaped him, running into the desert. Methos saw her, but let her go."

Joe tried to picture the raiding band of men Methos had started to describe, then connect it to the Methos that had let Cassandra escape. Why did he get a cold chill down his spine at the thought? How could that Methos - the killer and rapist - be the same Methos who let another Immortal escape? She had to have been the perfect slave. Do whatever you wanted to her, and she came back for more. Another cold chill settled at the base of his spine. He did _not_ want to think about that. Methos was _not_ like that now, and it would do no good to dwell in the past. 

His eyes widened as he remembered something from a Watcher report. "Wait a minute. Cassandra's Watcher reported something strange at the bridge."

"What bridge?" MacLeod asked, confused.

"At the power station, when she went looking for Kronos. After you left your loft? Cassandra was going after Kronos, you showed up, and she disappeared," Joe elaborated. "You never wondered how she got away from Kronos?"

MacLeod looked up, puzzlement marring his features. "She didn't mention anything about that to me. We didn't talk about it, really. She was waiting for me at the loft when I returned." He leaned closer to Joe. "What did Cassandra's Watcher see?"

Joe kept his gaze even on Duncan's as he answered, "Someone tossed Cassandra into the river. You wouldn't happen to know who that was, would you?"

"Kronos," MacLeod hissed. "As soon as I saw him, I went into fight mode. I didn't think anything of Cassandra at that point. She was waiting for me at the loft after Methos broke up the fight between me and Kronos."

Joe swiped a towel over the bar and leaned closer. "Try again. The Watcher got a description. Tall, lanky guy with short hair wearing an oversized sweater. Sound like anyone you know?"

"Methos?" MacLeod whispered, his eyes going wide. 

"Methos," Joe confirmed. "Sounds to me like he might have saved her life."

"But why? He was willing to let her die in Bordeaux. This doesn't make any sense," MacLeod exasperated. 

"Maybe you should ask him," Joe mused as he turned and mixed a drink, leaving MacLeod to his thoughts.

MacLeod left after a few hours when Methos didn't make an appearance. With another promise to let MacLeod know if Methos did show up, Joe said good-bye to the Highlander. Calling to Mike to watch the bar, Joe made his way back upstairs to check on his friend.

~~~~~

Methos struggled upright, a harsh scream catching in his throat. His eyes swept the unfamiliar surroundings, falling on the pictures of Joe and his family. He let out a shaky breath, trying to bring his breathing under control. His heart was racing, pounding in his throat. 

Joe watched as Methos' eyes swept the room, his breaths slowing to normal. "You okay?" he asked softly as he stepped fully into the room. He had been just outside the door, out of Methos' line of sight. 

Methos' head snapped up at the sound of Joe's voice. The lie almost made it past his lips, his assurance that he was okay, but something inside him rebelled. "No, I'm not," he whispered as he dropped his head to his hands. 

Joe walked over and settled on the bed, resting his hand on Methos' leg. "Methos, it's all right. You've been through hell and back again. I'm not expecting you to be sunshine and roses." 

That brought Methos' head up, and a very small smile touched his lips, though it died quickly. He stared past Joe's shoulder, at something beyond the walls of the apartment. "I remember sunshine and roses. I _like_ sunshine and roses," he recounted, his voice a mere whisper. 

Joe answered, "I think we all do," with a smile, but Methos continued looking past him, his eyes blank. "Methos?"

"What? Joe? Sorry," Methos replied as shiver ran through his lean body. "Just remembering."

"You were having a nightmare, weren't you?" Joe asked, eyeing his friend with concern. "Want to talk about it?"

Methos shrugged. "One of several I've had over the centuries. I don't know what good talking will do. But, if you're looking for a bedtime story, this is more something from the mind of Clive Barker."

"Who?" he asked as he maneuvered to the side of the bed. 

"Never mind." Methos drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around them protectively. "You sure you want to hear this?"

Joe settled himself against the headboard and arranged his legs comfortably. He fixed the Immortal with his pale gaze, concern drawing down the corners of his mouth. "I'll listen if you're ready to tell me. I'll understand if you don't. It's none of my business, anyway."

Methos shook his head as he hugged his arms around his legs tighter. "No. I want you to hear this." He paused and let his gaze wander around the room. "Yes, I was having a nightmare. Reliving a memory, actually. It was just before the turn of the second century b.c.. The Horsemen had been together for nearly one thousand years. We had spread our reign of terror across the African desert, through what is now the Middle East, upwards into modern day Russia, and even as far away as India. But our reign was coming to an end. The times had changed; defenses were stronger, and armies better equipped to fight us. We had been defeated again and again, and our egos were hurting. You have to understand that for gods, defeat was unthinkable. Unacceptable. 

"We happened upon the middle of a battle, what the history books call the second of the Punic Wars. All of us rode into the middle of the fray with the desperate need to redeem ourselves. We weren't even sure which side we were on, we just needed to fight. And fight we did. I was blinded by my own hurt pride. I just kept slicing and hacking at everyone, unable to stop. My ego wouldn't allow me to stop. I didn't feel any of the wounds I'm sure my body took. The only feeling I had was lust; I needed blood on my hands, and I made sure I got an abundance." He paused to wipe his hands on his jeans. His voice was raspy as he continued, "Carthage lost. No, that is an understatement. The Carthegian army was decimated. Rome walked over them like so much roadkill. Even after all my years as a Horsemen, I had never seen such devastation on a battlefield." 

Methos took a deep breath, the exhale a bit shaky. "I had lost sight of my brothers during the fighting, even though we were on horseback. I was fairly certain that Silas would have jumped down off his horse to join the battle; he always did prefer fighting one on one, rather than from the back of a horse. After awhile, we all had abandoned our horses to fight directly. Caspian was at my back for a day, but he had been killed; I never could find his body." He swallowed hard. "Kronos. I never knew what happened to Kronos. One minute he was by my side, and the next, he was gone." Methos' head dropped slowly to his arms as he gathered his strength. He raised his head again and stared at the far wall; through it, through the ages. 

"I remember my clothes were torn and bloody. I had been wounded, but never fatally. I was recovering from a deep leg wound when I was taken prisoner by Romans, along with dozens of others. We were chained hand and foot and dragged back to their camp, where they left us out in the sun. A few died from heat exhaustion before they hauled us to our feet and marched us across the desert to the shore. I still don't know how long it was; several days to a week has been my best guess. More died along the way, though I didn't. I never knew if it was my stubbornness or sheer will, but all during the fighting, I had never died. They shoved us into the bowels of a ship - about a hundred of us or so...I have no idea how long we were on the water."

Methos paused, a shiver running the length of his body. "The entire time, I protested my treatment. I didn't care about the other prisoners, I only cared for myself. 'I am a god, don't you understand?' I yelled at them. 'You do not treat a god this way.'" Another shiver coursed through him, and he drew a blanket up over his legs and tucked it under his chin. 

"By the time we finally reached shore, one quarter of the prisoners had died. We were marched into what I recognized as Rome. At the time, I was too outraged to realize what they had planned for me. It never occurred to me to be afraid. I hadn't been afraid for over a thousand years. There was nothing for me to be afraid _of_. I couldn't die. But I could bleed." Methos' face drained of all color and he started shaking in earnest. 

Joe reached out and laid one warm hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to tell me this, Methos. It doesn't matter." Joe started as he heard his own voice; rough and low. Methos' story was affecting him more than it really should. Maybe because he was telling it so vividly? Maybe because it was _Methos_ who was telling it? Someone who was _there_ to have seen it? 

"It does," the Immortal insisted. "It does to me," he added softer, his eyes pleading with Joe to understand.

Joe nodded, then left his hand on Methos' shoulder for support.

"They subjected me to beatings, whippings; any form of punishment they could think of. I took it all, sneering and encouraging them to find better ways to torture me. I gave them instructions on how to do a proper flogging. I was at the brink of death numerous times, but I always came back." Methos paused and wrapped the blanket tighter around himself. His voice was raw as he finished, "I went mad." 

The oldest Immortal shook himself, dragging himself out of the immediate memories. "We finally arrived wherever we were going; I didn't care at the time. We were dragged down a set of steps into the earth and tossed into a dank cell. There were no holes in the walls to allow in light. It was pitch black, cold and wet. It felt like being inside a well, which, we might have been. One that had dried up and been abandoned. Which is what we were...abandoned. I don't know how long we were down there, ten of us crammed into that tiny cell. It had to have been weeks. I ranted and screamed until my vocal cords refused to heal themselves. The other prisoners took to beating me, gagging me, anything to get me to shut up. But I was insane, enraged beyond reason at having been caught, at having been separated from my brothers. Being treated as I was, being who I was.

"Eventually, the prisoners were taken one by one until only I was left. I didn't know where they had been taken, but I had studied; I had a pretty good guess. And I swore that wouldn't happen to me. I would not be sold like a common slave. I was a god! You don't sell gods. You worship them!" Methos closed his eyes tightly as he took several deep breaths to calm himself. Joe exerted a little pressure to Methos' shoulder, and the Immortal flicked a small smile at him in gratitude. "Finally, my day came. I was brought before the master, in torn clothing stained with my own blood, my hands and feet shackled. I was shoved into the great hall...and that's when I felt it. Another Immortal."

Joe's hand went limp. His throat had gone dry, and no amount of licking his lips wetted his parched mouth. He didn't want to interrupt Methos, but he had to get something to drink. "Methos..." he waited until he had the Immortal's attention. "I need a drink."

Methos smiled wryly. "I don't blame you. What do you need?" Methos stretched his limbs from their cramped position and rose from the bed before Joe could protest. "Beer? Something stronger?"

Joe nodded to the kitchen cabinets. "Stronger. Bring the bottle, all the way in the back on the right."

"All right." Methos went into the other room and pulled out the bottle of vintage brandy, letting out a low whistle. "You sure you want to open this, Joe?" he asked as he snatched two glasses in one hand. 

"Positive," Joe called, then muttered under his breath, "I need it, and I suspect you do too, my friend."

Methos returned with the bottle and placed it on the bed. Settling back down and pulling the blanket over him, Methos waited for Joe to open the bottle. Holding out the glasses, Joe filled them, then placed the bottle on the nightstand and took the offered glass. "Salut," Joe toasted, sipping at the strong brandy. 

Methos took a sip, then sighed, closing his eyes. "Wonderful," he murmured. Arranging himself much the way he was before, he turned to Joe. "Where was I?"

Joe nearly choked on his drink. "You just entered the hall and sensed another Immortal."

"Ah, yes. Him." Methos' head tilted back until it rested on the headboard. "He was the master, you see. It was his estate I had been taken to. He knew what I was. That's why he saved me for last. I was brought before him and forced to my knees. I struggled; unwilling - and unable - to bow before another. For a thousand years, I had been the one bowed to. I was beaten down to the floor until I stayed there.

"I don't quite remember what happened next. I saw the guard next to me had a sword in his belt; I stole it. I managed to get to my feet, swinging like a wild man possessed. And perhaps I was. I took out a few of the guards before they caught me with a spear through the belly. I remember staring up at the master, the Immortal, as he ordered me to be taken to his healer."

"But if he was Immortal..." Joe risked interrupting.

Methos stared into his drink, his voice completely unemotional. "His healer was Immortal too. He just watched over me until I died. I figured he'd take my head when I was dead. But, I woke up, coming face to face with the master." 

Methos finished off his drink and asked for the bottle. Joe handed it to him, noting the fine tremor in the long fingers. Methos filled his glass and kept the bottle on his side of the bed. Joe didn't object. Methos polished off a third of his glass before continuing. 

"The master had a plan for me. I was to be his personal slave. And he spent every hour of every day making sure I learned exactly what that meant. I was under his guard for decades ... possibly a century, I don't know anymore. He...broke me, of my god mentality. It's hard to be a god when your face is in the dirt," he remarked quietly, raising his glass with a shaky hand to take another sip. "One night I finally made my escape. I jumped out of the window and broke nearly every bone in my body, but I was free. I fled into the city and lost myself among the tents. I didn't stop running for a week, until I found my way to another city. I didn't have any money and I didn't have any friends. I didn't know what a 'friend' was then. The closest that I had was my brothers, and I didn't know what had happened to them. I assumed they ended up with the same fate as I had. Slaves, sold to the highest bidder. The only thing I had was my name, which I had held on to fiercely. It was the only tie to my previous life." 

Methos finished off his brandy before continuing. "After I stopped running, I noticed the city around me. I had ended up in an open market, and started stealing food in order to survive. The god had been reduced to a beggar: the second most humbling experience of my life."

Joe was afraid to know what the first had been. He didn't even contemplate asking, just sipped quietly at his drink, trying to absorb everything Methos had just told him. A god to a slave, in such a short time - immortally speaking. Looking at the modestly dressed man next to him, Joe marveled at Methos' ability to adapt. To survive. Lesser men would have died or given up. "What made you escape? How did you... what I mean is, what kept you going? Your name? Your brothers? To have waited that long till the time was right..."

Methos studied the far wall, then wrapped the comforter around himself tighter. He finally met Joe's gaze. "Do you really want to know, Joe?" he asked softly. He waited until Joe nodded, then took a deep breath. "Hatred. Pure, blinding hatred. I loathed everything I had become under the master's tutelage. I hated him with every fiber of my being; with everything that I was. But, I couldn't kill him. He had beaten fear into me so sufficiently that I never raised a hand against him. Once I escaped the master and regained my freedom, I went on another killing spree. All my rage at the master, I took out on the Immortals I came across. I didn't care who; I didn't care how old. I - I can't even remember them all." He choked back a sob and covered his mouth with his hand. 

Dawson couldn't help it; he put his arm around the five thousand year old man. "It's what you do."

"No," Methos whispered hoarsely as he pulled back. "We challenge, then fight. I _slaughtered._ I wanted them all _dead_. Every Immortal was the master, and he had to die. No Immortal deserved to live. They _all_ had to pay because of what had been done to me." Methos' voice was shaking with barely contained emotion, and his face was pale. "I rejected all the 'teachings' he had beaten into me. The submission, the meekness, the surrender. I was my own man again. Not who I had been; no. In a way, I was worse. I had been heartless before, but this - I spent four hundred years tracking down and killing any Immortal I could find...then I met Darius."

Joe must have looked shocked, because Methos' tone softened and he smiled minutely. "Yes, MacLeod's Darius. I met him around 287AD while he was on _his_ killing rampage. Grayson was by his side then, as his second. I was content to stay in the ranks, unnoticed. I tried to stay out of their range, but I didn't always succeed. Darius finally discovered me and took me to his tent." Here Methos drifted off, and Joe gave him the time he needed to sift through his memories. 

"He asked who I was, and I told him. His eyes glittered for a moment, and I was afraid I would lose my head then and there. Instead, he clapped me on the back and asked if I'd look over his attack plans. I agreed, and I helped him plan his raids, as I had done with Kronos over six hundred years previous. I thought I was sick of death; I found out I hungered for it even more. It was my revenge on having nearly a century of my life taken away by that bastard." He paused to refill his glass and took a long swallow of the strong liquid. 

"I was careful to stay out of Grayson's way. Darius I trusted for some unknown reason, but not Grayson. My bloodlust was more than satisfied in battle; I didn't need a challenge on top of it. Even then, I knew how good Grayson was, and I knew he would only get better." 

Methos fell silent then, and Joe didn't know what to say. He could barely think. Methos was held captive for a century after the Horsemen, then hunted other Immortals for centuries afterwards... "When did it stop?" 

Methos was dragged out of his own contemplation at Joe's question. "When did what stop?"

"Challenging Immortals. When did you stop hunting?" 

A softness crept over Methos' features. "Exactly 463AD, the day after Darius took the oldest Immortal's head at the gates of Paris." 

When it didn't look like Methos would elaborate, Joe prodded gently, "Was it Darius' transformation that did it?" 

A bemused smile crossed Methos' features. "Not exactly. You see, Darius' transformation didn't happen overnight. Instead, he wrestled with all that power for a few hours, then challenged me and very nearly took my head." 

Joe sat in stunned amazement. He had read Darius' chronicles and knew he was one of the greatest generals ever known, but the logic behind it had alluded him until now. Darius had been a killer, just like every other Immortal. He took heads back then because he wanted to, and he could. Joe felt uneasy thinking down those lines, so he asked the first question that popped into his head. "What stopped him?"

Methos' smile grew minutely as he gazed at the far wall. "You know, I'm still not quite sure. I was on my knees in a pool of my own blood, waiting for the death blow, and he just...dropped his sword. He pulled me to my feet and shook me, and told me to get out." 

Joe nodded in understanding. "So you ran." 

"I ran," Methos confirmed. "I wasn't stupid. I had seen the Quickening Darius had absorbed, and I was surprised he was conscious. I also knew that right then, he was the most powerful Immortal on the planet, and he had beaten me in less than thirty seconds." He smiled ruefully. "You could say that was a humbling experience." 

Joe let out a low whistle. "Did you ever see him again?" 

"Oh, sure. We met up a few centuries later and became good friends. We had drifted apart decades before he..." Methos swallowed hard, "died, so I felt unworthy to attend any services that were held." 

"You know his ashes were scattered into the Seine, don't you?" Joe asked quietly. 

Methos' eyes widened as he stared at Joe. "No, I didn't. I searched the Watcher records for his gravesite and could never find it. Who...?" 

"MacLeod," he answered softly. "This was before I met him, but I was still Watching. He held a small service with Tessa, Richie and Fitzcairn. It was nice." 

Methos ran his finger around the edge of his glass. "I'm glad," he murmured. He was quiet for another minute, then seemed to shrug off everything that had happened. "So, was there anything else you wanted to know?" 

Joe's eyes locked on the deceptively calm face of his friend, and his eyes narrowed. "Just one thing. Why won't you tell any of this to MacLeod?"

Methos choked on the brandy. Wiping his mouth, he refilled his glass. "I have no intention of telling MacLeod. He wouldn't understand." 

Joe knew that, given enough time, MacLeod would forgive just about anything. He just had to get Methos to see that. "What makes you so sure?"

Methos closed his eyes and shook his head. "He will never accept what I was." 

"Probably not," Joe agreed, which got Methos' full attention. "But maybe he can accept what you _are_. You're not that man, Methos. You've changed. You've learned from your mistakes and grown."

"Have I?" Methos swirled the brandy around in his glass, inhaling the strong bouquet. "I went easily enough with Kronos. I fell so quickly into old patterns."

Joe kept his voice low, as if he were talking to a skittish colt. Despite his age, Methos could be devastatingly vulnerable at times. This was one of them. "From what I've heard, you did whatever you thought you needed to keep yourself and MacLeod alive. I'd say that's pretty..."

"I didn't," Methos interrupted him.

"What?"

"I didn't. I used MacLeod for my own purposes. I wanted Kronos dead, but couldn't do it myself. So, I manipulated events so MacLeod could do it. I watched as Caspian killed a doctor. I was the one who devised and created the bomb. I fixed it so Kronos could take Cassandra and use her as bait..."

Joe chuckled, much to Methos' astonishment. "It's no use, Methos. I'm still going to like you, no matter how ugly you paint yourself. And with that mug, it's easy to do," Joe joked, trying to lighten the moment between them. Methos' tale hung between them, a heavy burden lifted off Methos' shoulders, but one Joe now had to assimilate. "Besides, I know you saved Cassandra's life."

"What!?" Methos turned to him, eyes wide.

Joe's eyes were solemn as he regarded the Immortal. "At the abandoned power station. You were the one to dump her in the river, weren't you?"

One of Methos' eyebrows raised as he regarded Joe. "How do you know?"

Joe swirled his brandy, staring into its depth. "Cassandra's Watcher reported in. I read her reports. All he could do was record what you looked like; no pictures were taken at the time. Too many events happened in too short a time span." 

Some of the tension eased from Methos' shoulders. "At least that's something," he mused. 

"I, ah, mentioned this to MacLeod," Joe ventured as he raised his eyes tentatively. 

Methos' face shifted to unreadable. "When?"

"Coupla hours ago. He was here." 

Methos went deathly still. "You didn't tell him I was here, did you?"

"No," Joe rasped quietly. "I figured it was none of his business. When you're ready to talk to him, you know where he lives."

Methos contemplated his empty glass for a long minute. "Thank you again, Joe. You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did." Joe sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. "I've been where you are, Methos. I've felt Mac's judgment first hand, more times than I can remember. I only wish I had someone then to help me." He walked around the bed, feeling Methos' gaze heavy on him.

"I don't need help," Methos replied, his voice icy.

Joe held out his hand. "What about a friend?" he asked softly. 

Methos contemplated the outstretched hand thoughtfully. His expression shifted immediately to wariness, then he scrambled off the bed and reached for his coat before Joe could blink. He pulled his broadsword and plastered himself against the wall. "Someone's here," Methos hissed. 

Joe pulled a revolver from his nightstand as Methos held his Ivanhoe tightly, and together they went to the door.

A soft knocking had them both looking at each other. 

"It's MacLeod," the voice on the other side of the door called softly. "I came to talk to Methos." 

Joe looked to Methos questioningly. The Immortal's expression was unreadable again, though Joe thought he saw flashes of anger, then defeat in Methos' eyes. After a minute, Methos nodded and lowered his sword carefully. "It's okay, Joe," he replied, though there was a catch to his voice. 

Joe wondered just how much it had cost Methos to do this, even as he smiled encouragingly at the Immortal. Joe unlocked the door and stepped aside for MacLeod to enter. Both Immortals stared at one another for a long minute, neither saying anything. 

"Mac, why don't you have a seat? Methos, grab that brandy, would you?" Joe directed the two men, trying to get them to some action. 

MacLeod moved to the couch and in what seemed like slow motion, sank onto it. Methos turned swiftly and headed into the bedroom, returning with the brandy and their two glasses. Joe went to the kitchen and got another glass and set it on the coffee table. Methos set his next to it, and silence once again fell between all three men.

Joe thought he could cut the tension in the room with one of their swords. Methos studied the glasses, MacLeod stared at the floor, and Joe silently berated them all for being too chicken to speak first. Well, hell. If he had to ... "This is getting a bit old," Joe remarked lightly. "Someone is going to have to say something, sometime." 

"Methos, I --" MacLeod immediately began, then fell silent again. He stared down at his loosely folded hands. 

"You look like hell," Methos observed calmly. 

"You don't look much better," MacLeod retorted as he lifted his head to stare once again at the ancient man. "Have you been sleeping?" 

Methos' eyes connected with Joe's. "A little, with help from a friend." 

MacLeod's gaze slid to Joe as anger crossed his features. "He _was_ here all the time," he accused the Watcher. "I had a feeling." 

"What if he was?" Joe shot back. All he was doing was protecting a friend. Two friends, actually, from making the situation worse. Couldn't MacLeod see that? "Neither of you were in any condition to talk to the other. Remember, I talked to both of you, and I knew if you had met up then, it would have been one more disaster to add to your history." 

"I didn't ask him to," Methos responded quietly as his gaze once again rested on MacLeod. "Joe's right. I wasn't ready to listen to you earlier. Now," he took a deep breath, "I think I am." 

MacLeod's angry flush faded at Methos' words. "You're right. I don't think I was capable of hearing what you had to say yesterday. Now, I'm ready to listen." 

"To listen, yes. But are you ready to accept?" Methos countered. 

The tension increased and Joe held his breath. He knew this was do-or-die time. Damnit, why was Methos making this a challenge? He had to see that MacLeod was trying. Joe just hoped MacLeod saw that _Methos_ was trying. 

"We'll have to see," MacLeod answered non-committally, and Methos gave a sharp nod in concession. 

Joe breathed a sigh of relief and tried to fade into the background as the two Immortals talked. He felt as if he were observing a great negotiation or historical moment. He just hoped he wasn't witnessing the end of what should have been a good, lasting friendship. 

"So, where did you go, after...?" MacLeod began. 

Methos shrugged. "I wandered around for a couple of hours. I wasn't exactly in a mood to socialize." 

"No, I guess you weren't," MacLeod answered softly. "Neither was I." Silence descended again, then MacLeod cleared his throat. "Methos, I want to ask you something, but I don't know how you'll react." 

Methos eyed him warily. "Won't know unless you ask." 

The question was so quiet, Joe had to strain to hear it. When he did, his blood ran cold. 

"What's it like, knowing someone for three thousand years?"

Methos' entire body stiffened, and Joe was afraid he was going to bolt for the door. Instead, Methos settled further into the chair and answered just as quietly, "Why is it important for you to know?"

"The longest I've known anyone is Connor, and I know that's nothing compared to your life. Clay had known Wellan for nine hundred years, and I couldn't understand what he meant when he asked me that same question. I think I'm beginning to, though." 

"To understand the question, or the answer?" Methos posed. 

"I don't know the answer, but I do understand the question. Knowing someone for close to a thousand years, they almost become a part of you. They're being there becomes second nature. And when they're gone ..." Duncan's voice grew even softer as he asked, "Silas meant a great deal to you, didn't he?" 

Methos took a minute to answer. When he did, his voice was deeper than normal. "He was my brother. We ate the same food, shared the same women, occasionally shared the same tent, for hundreds of years." He closed his eyes, and Joe thought he saw Methos wince. "You are right, MacLeod. To have someone there for you, for so long, that you _expect_ them to be there for you is a most unbelievable feeling. It's natural for you to forget about their Buzz; it becomes so much a part of you."

Methos' eyes opened and he stared hard at MacLeod. "Even though I hadn't laid eyes on Silas in centuries, I still knew where he was. I knew he was out there, and he would always be there for me." Methos' voice was giving out on him, so he poured himself some brandy and took a sip. "I hope you'll have a friendship like that someday, MacLeod." 

MacLeod had gone pale as Methos recounted just what Silas meant to him. Now, he rasped, "I hope I do too, Methos. I'm sorry for bringing this up again. I know it's painful..." 

"No." That sharp word stopped MacLeod cold. "You don't know. I hope you never _do_ know." Methos fell silent again, then it was his turn to ask a question. "Why did you want to know?" 

"I wanted to understand what you were going through. I wanted to know what sort of courage must it have taken for you to pick up a blade against him - against any of them." 

Methos slowly shook his head. "It wasn't courage. It was cowardice." 

"What?" MacLeod rasped disbelievingly. 

Joe bit his tongue to keep from asking the same thing. Methos, a coward? Never. Not after hearing everything he had gone through. Even through his time in servitude to that other Immortal, Joe never believed Methos a coward. The oldest Immortal had too strong a survival instinct, but that didn't equate with cowardice. It equated with knowing your limits and playing the Game within them. 

"Cowardice," Methos repeated. "I couldn't do it, MacLeod. Kronos saw through every plan I had, and that frightened me. I used to be so much better than that. I had no choice. I couldn't go up against him; he would win. I had no doubt about that. He was always the best swordsman among us." He looked up into MacLeod's eyes. "And if he won, who would stop him?"

MacLeod blinked slowly as understanding transformed his face. "I would." 

Methos nodded once. "You were the only one who could have taken him on. Kronos was mad about Caspian, and you were mad about Cassandra and me. All in all, you were evenly matched. The thing that sent Kronos over the edge, though, was..." 

"Seeing you fight Silas," MacLeod finished for him, awe in his voice. "You really did set the whole thing up." 

"In a way, yes. Any plan I might have had, Kronos already knew about it. We'd always been like that, which is why we were an unstoppable team." A smile teased at his lips, then faded almost before it began. "Every plan I came up with, Kronos was right there, one step ahead of me. But he never counted on one thing: me going up against him." 

"I don't know how you did it," MacLeod whispered. 

"I told you, cowardice," Methos repeated, his voice hard. "I was scared of Kronos, but I was more scared of him gaining control of the world." He paused to swallow hard. "I was shit-scared the entire time, MacLeod." 

Before Joe could say anything, MacLeod cut in. 

"It wasn't cowardice," MacLeod snapped. "You went up against Kronos, a man who I _know_ doesn't know the meaning of the word 'forgive', and risked your head to manipulate events so I would win. That's not cowardice." 

"Then what is it?" Methos demanded. "Surely not bravery. Bravery is for knights and certain Highlanders; I am neither." 

"It _is_ bravery," MacLeod insisted. "It takes a certain strength of character to do what you did. And you did it without hesitation." 

'You go MacLeod!' Joe mentally cheered. It was about _time_ the Scot finally saw exactly what Methos was made of. 

Methos rolled his eyes. "Oh, there you're wrong. There was plenty of hesitation. But a good strategist never lets on that he's unsure. That ruins confidence in him, and plans start to fail." 

"Plans _did_ fail. I diffused the bomb," MacLeod rasped. He stared incredulously at Methos and asked with a catch to his voice, "Do you know how easy it would have been for Kronos to catch you? Do you know what he would have _done_ to you?"

Methos stared hard at MacLeod for a minute, a minute that Joe held his breath. He didn't want to think of Methos at Kronos' mercy. Not that Methos necessarily would be at _anyone's_ mercy, but Joe had spent hours reading up on Koren while the Immortals played out the Apocalypse in Bordeaux. _He_ knew what Kronos had done, and it still sent a shudder through his body. 

"Yes," Methos finally answered, his voice completely unemotional. 

MacLeod's eyes dropped to his tightly clenched hands. "You took incredible risks, Methos."

The older Immortal shrugged it off. "The situation called for it." 

"Maybe," Duncan mused. The three men sat in silence for a few minutes, then MacLeod spoke. "Can I ask another question?"

"Will it hurt?" Methos asked, clearly kidding, but the lines around his mouth tightened. 

"It might," MacLeod admitted. "Why didn't you leave with me at the church?"

"That's when Kronos was getting Cassandra, MacLeod. He knew very well I had gone to see you, and he knew that was his cue to take her. If I hadn't returned to the base, she would have been...well, after awhile, she would have been dead. If she was lucky." 

MacLeod paled again. "Kronos wasn't lying. He really would have made her wish she was dead," he whispered. 

"Kronos never lied," Methos answered with confidence. "He didn't have to." 

"Good God, Methos, you could have been killed at any time!" burst out of MacLeod's mouth before he could stop it. "Why'd you do it?"

"They had to be stopped," Methos replied calmly. 

"Of course they did, but why _you_?" MacLeod exasperated. "Because you knew them so well? Because you knew _me_? Why? Why risk everything?" 

Methos was quiet again for several minutes, during which time Joe gnawed at his lower lip. Joe also wanted to know the answer to that question, but had always been afraid to ask it. Now that it was on the table, so to speak, he was afraid of the answer. 

Methos softly began, "Have you ever heard the saying, 'What is life without risk?' Well, when the other Methos came to town, he gave me a few things to think about. 'Can a man live five thousand years and say he did nothing'? - well, I could say I did something, but not something I'd like to be remembered for. Being the killer of thousands of tribes is not what I wanted my legacy to be. There was no way to make up for what I had done. Everyone had been dead a very long time, with the exception of Cassandra. The only way I could see to make up for it was to make sure it never happened again." 

MacLeod shook his head as the elder Immortal explained. Now, he berated him, "Methos, you should know you couldn't make up for that." 

Joe stared incredulously, first at Methos, for what he had just admitted, then at MacLeod, for not realizing what Methos had just admitted to. Methos did it for MacLeod's approval. For his continued friendship. Because Methos knew that if had not, MacLeod would never have been able to forgive him. His respect for the eldest Immortal went up another notch. 

Methos raised his eyes to MacLeod's and held his gaze, until MacLeod was forced to look away. His voice was soft as he answered, "That's right, MacLeod. I knew I couldn't."

"You didn't have to do it for me," MacLeod declared hotly. 

"Didn't I?" Methos answered quietly. "Would we be having this conversation if I hadn't?"

"No," MacLeod was forced to admit. 

"Then it had to be done." 

MacLeod rested his elbows on his knees, then leaned his head onto his hands. His voice was muffled as he asked, "My friendship means that much to you?" 

"Think about it MacLeod." Methos stood and went into the bathroom without another word. 

Joe sat in unabashed silence. He couldn't have spoken if his life depended on it. He worked his tongue, then his mouth. Finally, he croaked out, "Well?" 

"Well, what?" MacLeod answered, his voice infinitely tired. 

"You don't have anything to say to what Methos just told you?" 

"I didn't ask him to die for me," MacLeod snarled. 

"No, you didn't. He did it because he values your friendship, though God knows why sometimes," Joe retorted sarcastically.

"What do you want me to say, Joe? He said --" MacLeod looked to the doorway where Methos had disappeared into. "He said he faced Kronos again because of _me_. He killed Silas because of _me_. I didn't ask him to!" The Scot dropped his head to his hands and stayed like that while Joe debated what to say next. 

Joe didn't want to betray what Methos told him, but he didn't think Methos would ever admit it to MacLeod directly. "He knew it was the one thing that would allow you forgive him. Seeing him renounce his 'old ways.'" 

"But I didn't _ask_ him to," MacLeod whispered as he lifted his head and stared at Joe. 

"Haven't you ever done something for someone, just because you wanted to? Because you _needed_ to?" Joe answered quietly. 

"Maybe he's just manipulating me again," MacLeod scoffed. "That's all he did in Bordeaux." 

Joe was so mad, he was shaking. "Get off your high horse, MacLeod," he growled. "He laid it all out for you. Everything you wanted to know about Bordeaux, Kronos, Cassandra... it's all there. What more do you want? Blood?" The implied threat hung between them, and Joe wished for once the thick-headed Scotsman would only look at what was said, and not at what wasn't. 

~~~~~

When Methos returned and sprawled in the chair, a more subdued MacLeod answered him. 

"At every opportunity, you made sure I was angry. Furious to the point that I felt I was absolutely right, and you were absolutely wrong. You deliberately provoked me at every opportunity, keeping me off balance and unsure of you. You made me feel as if I had to defend the entire world against all of you." 

Methos raised his eyebrows but didn't say a word. MacLeod continued. 

"And that gave me the fire I needed to defeat Kronos. I was so angry and hurt and disillusioned that I couldn't do anything _but_ fight Kronos. And win." He finally raised his head to look directly at Methos. "It all led to that one moment, didn't it?" 

"Bright boy," Methos raised his glass in a toast. 

"But you knew our friendship would survive. How?" he demanded. 

Methos answered with a shrug. "I didn't." 

"You called me to the church," MacLeod pointed out. 

"I had no way of knowing if you would show," Methos responded quickly. 

"I did, and I even tried to get you to come with me." 

"I know," Methos sighed and smiled ruefully. "I'm still amazed by you, MacLeod." The smile vanished. "Didn't Cassandra tell you about me? What I did to her?" 

MacLeod shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "She said that you killed her repeatedly until she broke to your will. That you..."

Methos held up his hand. "It's all true, I'm sure. Women were property back then and were treated as such. But what about now, when you were together? What did she say?" 

"She kept asking me if I was capable of taking your head. She told me I would have to kill you and Kronos, to make sure the Horsemen never happened again." 

"Why didn't you believe her?" Methos asked, then studied MacLeod's face. "Or did you?" he asked cautiously. 

MacLeod didn't meet Methos' gaze. He stared at the floor as he recounted what had happened. "After you broke up that first fight between me and Kronos, I went back to my loft and she was there waiting for me. I swore to her there that we would find you all and kill you. But as we searched for Caspian and Silas, trying to find out where you and Kronos had gone, I got to thinking. My emotions had died down somewhat, and I began picking up little things." MacLeod tilted his head as he contemplated Methos. "Kronos had found you before you came to the dojo that day, didn't he? You could barely speak, you were so scared."

"He had," Methos confirmed. 

"What did he do to you?" he asked quietly. "Did he threaten you?" 

"Threaten may be too light a word. At first, he just wanted me to join him in his plan for world domination. Then, he offered me a choice; my head or yours." Methos tilted his head and a sardonic smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "Little choice there. I was cornered. I had only one chance to live, and that was that Kronos wanted the Four Horsemen together again. And I was the only person who could give it to him. That is what kept me alive, MacLeod." 

MacLeod's gaze drifted to the floor, then back up at Methos. "Would you have told me this in the dojo, if Cassandra hadn't shown up?" he asked quietly. 

"I don't know, MacLeod. I was going to try to convince you to leave town, preferably the country, that very second, though I don't know what good hiding would have done. Kronos was an excellent tracker, and had, I'm sure, a network of people who would follow you to the ends of the earth. But would I have told you about the Horsemen? About what I had been?" He paused and thought about it. "I honestly don't know. But I might have, just to see your reaction to a few things I would have tossed at you." 

MacLeod lowered his gaze on the floor again. "Like killing ten thousand and loving it." He slowly raised his eyes to Methos', then shrugged as if to say, 'and?'. 

Methos couldn't help it; he smirked. "Such as that, yes." 

Despite everything, MacLeod's mouth lifted in a rueful grin. "Have you ever just come out and told anyone anything in your entire life, Methos? Or do you always go about it the hard way?" 

"Straightforward is not my style, MacLeod. Surely you know that by now." 

MacLeod shot a glance to Joe, who raised his eyebrows in a 'see?' gesture. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for them all, yet. 

"I'm beginning to," MacLeod agreed. His countenance turned solemn again. His voice was quiet as he whispered, "Did you really kill ten thousand people?" 

"I don't know. That would be about ten a year." The patented Methos humor came back full force. "It doesn't sound like much when you put it that way, does it?" 

"Methos," MacLeod growled. 

Methos held up his hands. "I know; it was a rough guess. If I only killed ten a year, I wasn't doing a very good job of being a terror, was I?"

"Methos!" Joe's voice cut suddenly into the conversation, startling both Immortals. They both looked to him, and for a second, all he could do was stare at them in horror. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "I just... I couldn't..."

"It's okay, Joe," Methos assured him. "I was falling into 'bait MacLeod' mode." He glanced to MacLeod. "I didn't mean it."

"Yes, you did," MacLeod answered, though he was smiling. "You wouldn't have been much as death on horseback if you killed less than one person a month." 

"Dear God, you two are insane," Joe reproached them. "I thought you were going to challenge each other a few days ago, and now you're joking about the Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Why me?" he asked no one in particular. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"Just your unique brand of luck?" Methos posed. 

The rest of the tension dissipated as they all laughed softly. Methos leaned forward and filled Mac's and Joe's glasses. He raised his own and waited. 

Joe leaned forward and lifted his immediately. MacLeod hesitated the briefest of moments, then did the same. 

"One more thing, MacLeod. Am I safe from Cassandra?" Methos asked as he leaned back in his chair.

"I don't know. She left right after...I haven't seen her since." He thought for a bit. "I don't think she'll come after you, though."

"I never wanted her head, you know," Methos offered softly. "I still don't."

"I know," MacLeod replied. "You could have had it when you tossed her off the bridge, but you didn't."

"I was just making sure she couldn't interfere in my plan. Having her presence there would have been distracting." 

MacLeod was only half joking as he retorted, "You really are a heartless bastard, aren't you?"

Methos' voice offered no apologies. "Just taking care of things in the most expedient manner, MacLeod. I had to get her out of my way. And this way I thought she'd be safe from Kronos. I should have figured Kronos would never forget what she had done to him. You don't forget something like that." 

"No, I guess you wouldn't," MacLeod winced in sympathy. 

The three men sipped at their brandies and settled back, just getting used to each other's presence again. After a few minutes, MacLeod broke the silence. 

"You told me how Cassandra left the Horsemen. What about you? What changed? I mean, how did _you_ leave the Horsemen?"

Methos swallowed hard. "That is a conversation for another day."

MacLeod persisted, "Just answer me this: did you leave willingly?" 

"I didn't leave," Methos replied quietly, his words ringing with other truths. "But, now is not the time." 

"Then when?" MacLeod demanded. 

"Not now," Methos stressed. The edge was back in his voice as he clipped, "Haven't you bled enough out of me for one day?" 

MacLeod looked away, blindly reaching for his glass and finished off his brandy. 

Joe couldn't help it; he could not sit by and let the past hour go to waste. "Mac, how about you stop by tomorrow night? I've got a new guitar player that's really hot. Maybe you'd like to hear him?" he offered, hoping to bridge the gap he could see widening between the two Immortals. 

"I don't know," MacLeod replied quietly as he shot a look out of the corner of his eye to Methos' direction. "I don't know how the reception will be." 

Methos didn't even look in his direction. "I won't be here, MacLeod. I have to take care of something back in France." 

MacLeod sat up straight. "The virus."

"Yes. How did you know?" Methos asked suspiciously. 

"I - I'm not sure. I keep getting strange images," he tried to explain. "Cassandra in a cage. A vial in white light. A dam." 

"The reservoir above Bordeaux," Methos whispered. 

"Yes. Why is that important?" MacLeod asked. 

"Kronos planted that vial there. How did you know?"

"The Quickenings. I remember a bit of what Kronos did. I think that's why I could come and talk to you. I understand a little of his madness."

Methos shot him a strange look, and MacLeod cleared his throat. "I was afraid to see you," he admitted. "I wasn't sure what those Quickenings did to us."

"Looks like they didn't do much."

A rueful grin lifted one corner of MacLeod's mouth. "Oh, they did enough. They helped me to understand you a bit better."

Methos snorted. "That's not saying much."

MacLeod's anger, held in check until now, exploded. "Methos, will you stop throwing out defenses and listen! I'm trying to apologize here!" 

Dead silence fell between all three men. Methos opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I don't deserve it," he finally answered.

"Whether you do or not is up to you. I'm offering it." 

Methos dropped his head and didn't look up. "I don't deserve it," he repeated. "Not after the way I used you." He breathed deeply then raised his head, staring intently at MacLeod. "I haven't done this much in my life - probably not nearly enough. I - I'm sorry, Duncan. I hope there's something of our friendship left to salvage." 

Joe wasn't sure if his heart could take being friends with these two. From one extreme to the next, he felt like their friendship was a giant rollercoaster ride with no brakes. The weight of Methos' statement hung in the air, demanding an answer. 

"Oh, I think I could stand to look at your ugly mug over a beer now and then," MacLeod teased to lighten the mood.

Methos dipped his head and remained in that position for a full minute. When he looked up, he was smiling. His glance slid between Joe and Duncan. "You two are something else. This face has been immortalized \- pardon the pun - more than once! Do you know how popular I was in ancient Greece? This 'mug', as you both put it, is a classic." He finished off his brandy and stood. "Joe, mind if I use your phone? I need to make reservations for Bordeaux." 

"Better make that two," MacLeod called. "You need me. I might be able to help you find the vial." 

"Make it three," Joe chimed in. Both Immortals stared at him blankly. "What, you think I'm missing this?" He pointed to MacLeod. "I'm still your Watcher, damnit, and I'd rather fly first class than coach for a change!" 

Methos again looked from Joe to Duncan, his eyes shining a bit too brightly for the muted lighting in the room. "You got it," he called softly. 

While Methos was on the phone, MacLeod turned to Joe. He pitched his voice low as he asked, "Joe, is he really okay?"

Joe stared down the hallway where Methos had gone. "He's still got some ghosts to deal with, but it's nothing new for him. He's survived far worse than this; he'll be fine."

MacLeod digested that, then fixed Joe with a hard look. "You know, I'm still a bit mad at you for keeping him a secret up here."

Joe refused to look at the Immortal. "Mac, he hadn't slept in days. He was barely coherent when he stumbled in here. You both needed the break." 

MacLeod's voice was raspy as he explained, "I'm sorry, but you don't know how desperate I was to talk to him."

Joe glanced up, and saw Mac kneading his hands together. "Mac, what is wrong with you?"

"I don't know. I was nervous about seeing him. I had to see him, to prove he was still the Methos I knew." 

"Does this have something to do with the Quickenings?" Joe asked.

Duncan shrugged. "It might. Everything is a blur. All I remember is Cassandra standing over Methos with Silas' ax in her hand, and me yelling for her to let him live. And Methos' sobs echoing in the aftereffects of the Quickenings."

The phone clicked back onto the receiver and Methos returned to the living area. "We're set. Three first class tickets for tomorrow morning."

Joe whined, "So soon?"

"I don't know how stable that vial is. I should not have left before taking care of it," he berated himself. 

"You had a lot on your mind, Methos. You can't be expected to deal with everything," MacLeod reassured him. 

"Nothing happened yet, right? I mean, if it had exploded or whatever, wouldn't we have heard about France being a wasteland by now?" Joe tossed into the conversation. 

That brought a smile to Methos' lips. "I suppose so. But I want to be extra careful, just in case. Kronos was very thorough."

"Will you miss him?" MacLeod asked out of the blue.

"He was family for a large part of my life." Methos paused as he reflected on his feelings. "Yes, I will miss him, in my own way." 

"I don't think I'll ever understand you, Methos," Duncan sighed with a shake of his head.

"You have plenty of time to learn, Highlander," Methos tossed back.

"Is anyone else starving?" Joe interjected. "How about I order us some pizza or Chinese or something?"

MacLeod raised his eyebrows at Methos. "Chinese?" he asked at the same time Methos declared, "Pizza."

Joe laughed. "Don't ever change, guys. How about Italian? I know the owner of a little place a few blocks from here. Best linguini in town."

~~~~~ Epilogue

Mike turned out to be a hell of a guitar player. Methos' eyes closed as his head bobbed in time to the music. 

Joe watched the ancient Immortal, a smile slowly forming. The shadows hadn't quite disappeared from Methos' eyes, but his posture was better and he was more alert. 

His gaze slid to the broad man next to Methos, and his smile widened. MacLeod was also lost in the music, a faint smile on his lips. Between Methos and MacLeod's memories of Kronos, they had been able to find the vial quickly and destroy it. While they were in Bordeaux, Methos called a local wildlife rescue team and anonymously left a message about the monkeys. He wiped the computers clean and destroyed all of Kronos' notes on the virus. He, Joe and MacLeod had torn the sub base apart, making sure there were no backups or copies of anything. Finally satisfied, they had returned to the states within a few days, in time to hear Mike perform. 

"He's great," Methos commented over a particularly strong riff. 

"Definitely," MacLeod agreed. 

"I thought you were tone deaf?" Methos asked as he turned to MacLeod with a grin. 

"So what if I am? I can still hear talent," MacLeod huffed. 

"Hey, fellas? Could you just listen to the kid instead of harassing each other?" Joe interrupted. 

The two Immortals glanced to each other, then shook their heads simultaneously. "Nope," they answered in unison, and Joe groaned.

"Just what I need. Both of you ganging up on me. But," he chided them, "before you do, I have something to propose. While you were at the sub base, I was checking out the local clubs. I came across one that looked promising. I'm thinking of buying into the place." 

"That's great, Joe," Duncan immediately enthused. 

"Which one?" Methos asked. 

Joe carefully kept his expression neutral. "Ever hear of Maurice's?" 

Methos' eyes lit up and he spluttered into his hand. 

Duncan dropped his head into his hand and groaned. "Not Maurice..."

Joe chuckled. "The chef; the very same." His expression grew serious. "He's got a good thing going, Mac. I've even talked Mike into going over there. I want him to audition." 

"I'm sorry, Joe. Maurice did have one of the best restaurants in Paris. If this is what you want, you know I'll support you," MacLeod promised. 

"I'll do more than that," Methos commented as he dug into his jeans. He flipped open his checkbook and scribbled his name onto it. He tore it out and handed it to Joe. "I want to be a silent partner." 

Joe stared at the blank check as if it would burn him. "Adam, I - I _can't_. It isn't my club; it's Maurice's..."

"Then keep it until you want to open a club of your own in Paris, Joe. Or anywhere. I don't care. My only stipulation is that any money you use goes toward something that _you_ , Joseph Dawson, want. Not anyone else." He held out his hand. "Deal?"

Joe held out his hand, praying it didn't shake. Methos grasped it, and they both broke into wide grins. "Deal." 

Under his breath, Methos whispered, "I could use a friend." Before Joe could contemplate where that had come from, Methos had turned his back to the bar and was listening intently to the music again. His conversation with Methos up in his apartment came back to him, and he smiled knowingly at the back turned to him. "You son-of-a-bitch," he murmured affectionately as he willed himself not to cry. 

He knew MacLeod was watching him curiously, so he gathered his runaway emotions and turned back to his job. He still had customers to take care of. And a few friends. 

The End


End file.
